  BY THOMAS WHITTLE. To the Tune of, The worst’s past. Good people, give ear to the fatalest duel That Morpeth e’er saw since it was a town, Where fire is kindled and has so much fuel, I wou’d not be he that wou’d quench’t for a crown. Poor Sawney, as canny a North British hallion, As e’er crost the border this million of weeks, Miscarried, and married a Scottish tarpawlin, That pays his pack-shoulders, and will have the breeks. I pity him still when I think of his kindred, Lord Ogelby was his near cousin of late; And if he and somebody else had not hinder’d, He might have been heir unto all his estate. His stature was small, and his shape like a monkey, His beard like a bundle of scallions or leeks; Right bonny he was, but now he’s worn scrunty, And fully as fit for the horns as the breeks. It fell on a day, he may it remember, Tho’ others rejoyced, yet so did not he, When tidings was brought that Lisle did surrender, It grieves me to think on’t, his wife took the gee, These bitches still itches, and stretches commission, And if they be crossed they’re still taking peeks, And Sawney, poor man, he was out of condition, And hardly well fit for defending the breeks. She mutter’d, and moung’d, and looked damn’d misty, And Sawney said something, as who cou’d forbear? Then straight she began, and went to’t handfisty, She whither’d about, and dang down all the gear: The dishes and dublers went flying like fury, She broke more that day than would mend in two weeks, And had it been put to a judge or a jury, They cou’d not tell whether deserved the breeks. But Sawney grew weary, and fain would be civil, Being auld, and unfeary, and fail’d of his strength, Then she cowp’d him o’er the kale-pot with a kevil, And there he lay labouring all his long length. His body was soddy, and sore he was bruised, The bark of his shins was all standing in peaks; No stivat e’er lived was so much misused As sare as auld Sawney for claiming the breeks. The noise was so great all the neighbours did hear them, She made his scalp ring like the clap of a bell; But never a soul had the mense to come near them, Tho’ he shouted murder with many a yell. She laid on whisky whasky, and held like a steary, Wight Wallace could hardly have with her kept streaks; And never gave over until she was weary, And Sawney was willing to yield her the breeks. And now she must still be observ’d like a madam. She’ll cause him to curvet, and skip like a frog, And if he refuses she’s ready to scad him, Poxtake such a life, it wou’d weary a dog. Ere I were so serv’d, I would see the de’il take her, I hate both the name and the nature of sneaks; But if she were mine I would clearly forsake her, And let her make a kirk and a mill of the breeks. |
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